


Never Too Late

by Lyaksandra



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Could Be Canon, F/F, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyaksandra/pseuds/Lyaksandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a goddess. Beautiful, driven and powerful. Also, like the gods of old, she is selfish, whimsical and vindictive. This is the story of how one Maxine Caulfield survives being thrown around by the force of nature that is Victoria Chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Too Late

You tell Joy and David that you want to stay. The reassurances that you will be fine getting back to Blackwell on your own fall easily from your mouth, even though you have no idea how you will actually accomplish it. After everything that has happened, Max, the awkward talker, is gone. Navigating this last week has transformed you in ways both apparent and invisible. Your troubles are much worse than social ineptitude now. Incomparably so.

The brown casket stares back at you just as relentlessly as you stare at it. In a corner of your mind, you’re still hoping that the lid will suddenly pop open and Chloe will jump out, laughing like it was all a big joke. You will punch her in the shoulder and give her a stern look, and then you will both laugh it off. That’s the tiny part of your brain that reveled in photographing Victoria Chase covered in paint before rewinding to undo it. It’s the most irrational, crazy, irreverent part of your brain, and small as it is, its voice can be a booming, all-encompassing roar at times. Right now, that’s the voice telling you that this is all your fault.

Chloe is dead because of your abandonment, because of your inaction, because of your cowardice, because… Because, because, because. You killed her. The thought is illogical, but knowing that is not enough to make it go away.

You don’t cry. There are no more tears you can shed. It’s not that you don’t want to, far from it, but after seeing Kate jump, tangling with the devil in its lair, and losing your best friend so many times, your eyes have simply dried out. You are spent. Crying isn’t the only thing you’ve lost the ability to do. You can barely breathe, walk, sleep, eat, talk… anything, really. This life has become a string of events you can barely get through day after day. You’re stuck in a strange, grey, lukewarm limbo. The middle of nowhere, literally.

For a moment, you even consider that Kate was better off than you. At least, she still had the willpower to kill herself, while you can’t even muster that much. Then, you angrily dismiss the thought. You have no right to say whether Kate was doing better or worse. Hell is a very personal, intimate experience for the person going through it.

Which reminds you. Hopefully, Mark fucking Jefferson will find his personal experience to be life-altering enough to regret ever being born at all. Even if the stupid media keeps trying to immortalize him at all costs, just as the piece of shit wanted. You vehemently wish that every rumor about prison turns out to be true. Especially the ones related to the fate that befalls degenerates like him. As for Nathan Prescott, you feel that maybe he deserves a second chance. Plagued with regret for all the stupid choices he made, but still, another shot at life.

Someone comes by and tells you it’s time to lower the casket. You don’t acknowledge him at all and just stand up. It’s time to leave, anyway. The sun is dipping behind the treetops, and thinking about Jefferson has soured your mood. You can’t even mourn properly nowadays.

There’s some flashy super luxurious red car parked on the main road when you get there. The thing stands out like a sore thumb on one of the Powerpuff girls. And it’s not even that pretty. There’s this dumb looking opening that looks like the door to a dog house in its front. Geez, why do rich assholes have no respect for others? This is a cemetery, damn it. Leaving an inflammatory note in the windshield crosses your mind, but you can’t find the anger or the energy to go through with it. You move on. Rich assholes have the right to visit their dead relatives too.

As you move past the narcissistic abomination, the driver’s window slides down with a nearly noiseless hum.

“Get in,” you hear a familiar voice command.

Victoria Chase.

No longer do you hold your arm and look around like a wounded animal, avoiding eye contact and bumbling like an idiot. No, that Max is gone. You killed her along with Chloe. You can still be fazed and surprised, though. This is one of those moments.

“No, thanks,” you finally reply after a moment.

She just stares at you, expressionless, and for a second, you think that maybe she didn’t hear you. After all, your voice barely came out. But, just as you’re about to repeat yourself, she turns her head toward the front like it’s whatever. You notice something, though. Years of living in the background, watching the people around you, has made you perceptive. There’s a deep intake of air, and the tendons of the hand Victoria is using to hold onto the driving wheel go taut, the knuckles turning white with strain.

“Listen,” she says, calmly turning her head toward you and pinning you with her piercing, catlike eyes. “I waited all this time for you, the least you can do is let me drive you back.”

You know she’s right. Or, rather, were she any other person, she would be right. But this is Victoria Chase, the bully who pushed Kate Marsh to the roof of the girl’s dorm. No matter how much remorse she has shown, she still doesn’t deserve that you give her the light of day. You make your way to the passenger door anyway. It’s because you’re taking advantage, you tell yourself, and because going back to Blackwell on your own would take hours and there’s no way this isn’t better than that. These are the excuses you make for yourself.

The roar of the engine coming to life breaks you out of your reverie. Geez, the damn thing is loud too.

“Top up or down?” she questions once you’re seated, her right hand hovering over the car’s central console.

“What?” You sound almost annoyed, and it makes you flinch a little.

There’s no need to act like a bitch, not when she’s offering you some kind of consideration, even if you don’t understand it. It’s just that you don’t speak car. Now your face feels warm and you hope she doesn’t notice the blush. You consider saying something to smooth the interaction a little, but that moment is gone, Victoria is talking again.

“The roof. Up or down?” She says this while rolling her eyes and tapping the object in question with the first joint of her index finger. Her tone is not unkind, though.

You simply shrug. Her response is to roll her eyes at you again.

“Music?” Victoria asks.

Where is all this coming from? You can’t help wondering. All these little details seem out of place and a little excessive coming from the Queen Bitch of Blackwell. A pang of suspicion hits you. It’s practically a reflex when dealing with her. But, since she’s making the effort, you do too. You allow a small smile to surface as you shake your head.

“Suit yourself,” she says dismissively, already looking forward. “Put on your seatbelt.”

So, nice Victoria is gone. And so quickly. She will be missed, despite everything. You sigh. Luckily, the noise from the engine drowns the sound.

The ride is nice and comfortable while you traverse the cemetery. Everything inside this thing is made of the softest leather. You pointedly avoid thinking of how many cows died to make it possible, and look out the window, appreciating instead the beauty outside. At least Chloe is going to spend eternity among nature. Wild and untamed, just as she was. While the proceedings of the funeral took place, you noticed that the trees around you blocked almost all noise. It was like being in the middle of a forest. Although the cemetery isn’t that far from the roads, it truly is a peaceful place. The thought brings a smile to your lips.

Your contentment doesn’t last, though. As soon as you hit the highway, the car surges forward like the devil is hot on its heels. In all your life, you’ve only felt this sensation of sinking into the seat when riding planes and playing racing videogames. You look at Victoria, panicking mildly, but her face looks placid and relaxed. Is this how she always drives? Then, you make the mistake of looking at the speed thingy. The numbers go all the way up to 280 miles per hour. Holy shit. Just what kind of car is this?

That the thing probably costs more than your parent’s house and cars is kind of a given. This is Victoria Chase, after all. But you can’t help your astonishment at the sci-fi speeds this thing can purportedly reach. You try to commit to memory the logo engraved on the driving wheel so you can do a google search later. EB? You’ve never seen that one before. Then again, it’s not like you pay much attention to these things. You do remember the one that kind of looks like the peace logo, though.

It’s hard to enjoy the car ride when you’re clinging to the seat for dear life, not to mention that the scenery is not even a blur, rather more like a uniform strip of color.

When you arrive at the Blackwell parking lot, you thank Victoria and really mean it. Your knees feel kind of wobbly when you get off the car and touch the pavement, but it’s fine. Being all tense the entire trip left your joints tired, even if it lasted like minus three seconds. That’s all.

She is dismissive about it, like it was nothing at all, even though back at the cemetery she did rub it in that she waited hours for you. That’s fine too, though. Victoria’s modesty and kindness toward you, no matter the amount, should be treasured. This may be the only time it happens.

Back in your room, alone and without the fear of death by car crash looming over you, the weight of the day finally settles on your shoulders. It makes you buckle under it. You don’t bother changing clothes and merely lie across your bed, legs extended and head resting against the wall, both arms resting listlessly at your sides. And then, you stare at the wall across. The tears still aren’t coming. Hell, you don’t feel much of anything right now. Just this immeasurable exhaustion. You’ve been running on fumes since that day when you sat on the floor of the girl’s bathroom, hugging your legs to your chest while Chloe was getting shot in the gut.

Long ago you read somewhere that getting shot in the abdominal area was agonizingly painful. What a way to go for your best friend. You feel so empty, so thoroughly out of it, and you can’t even find catharsis in sleep. Because you can’t sleep. You’re basically a phantom haunting the halls of Blackwell Academy, clinging to its regrets, unable to leave or find any rest.

It’s past ten when you feel the bed dip beside you. Has it really been four hours since you began staring at the wall? You can’t help the smile that forms on your lips, because that is a pretty impressive feat in its own right.

“Max,” that familiar voice beckons from your left.

That’s right, someone is here. You should probably show some signs of life before she calls the coroner or throws a hissy fit because you haven’t acknowledged her royal presence.

“Maribeth,” you say, your voice an airy whisper.

You feel movement on the bed. Recoiling? Why? Oh, that’s right, you just revealed to the owner of the name that you have your own personal secret pet name for her. One that you have only ever used in the privacy of your own head. There’s a pang of something inside your chest, but ultimately, you can’t bring yourself to do any damage control. Que sera, sera? Lo que sera, sera.

“Why did you call me that?” she asks, like she doesn’t know.

A tiny snort escapes you. Like she doesn’t know! You don’t have the capacity for anything else but honesty right now. This must be what being drunk is like. People say that drunks always tell the truth, don’t they? Besides, you feel warmth in your chest at the thought of it, so, you let your mind run with it.

“Say it,” you demand, smiling to yourself like you’re so proud of your own words. “Feel how it moves your face. Feel how it rolls off your tongue. Taste it.”

There’s only silence in the room.

“I give up,” you say, tiredly throwing your hands in the air. “I guess I have to spell it out for you.”

You slide down, bringing your head to rest on the mattress, and then turn on your side. There she is, Victoria Maribeth Chase, sitting on the edge of your bed with a poise that is completely out of place here. Her silhouette is all feline grace and elegance, and her expression is inscrutable. Not to mention that it’s dark in your room. Very. You wouldn’t be able to read her face anyway.

Then, you notice her hands. They’re clenched into tight fists. You are intoxicated on lack of sleep, misery, and disregard for your own self. A potent cocktail, to say the least. What is there to lose anymore? And so, you take the plunge into the precipice without a second thought.

Both your hands capture her right, and you immediately marvel at the softness of her skin. This is the first time that you touch Victoria, and even more importantly, the first time that she allows you to touch her. You can’t avoid running your thumbs all over her hand with an almost needy desperation. Carefully, though, because her delicate wrist looks fragile encased in that huge gold bangle she always wears.

That’s when you catch a flash of sapphire on her fingertips.

“Your nails,” you whisper, a rush of feelings catching in your throat.

Luckily, Victoria gets your meaning immediately. Anyone would ask. The queen always paints her nails in shades of red.

“I removed the polish for the funeral. You know, for a more austere look. And then… Well, I felt like a change.”

It’s uncommon for her to hesitate, especially on such a pedestrian topic. You can’t help feeling that there’s something bizarre about this. Is this another sign from fate, like the butterfly? Are you somehow linked to Victoria Chase? Nah, that’s just silly, it’s just a big coincidence. Yeah, that’s all.

An unknown amount of time goes by, and all you do is caress her hand in silence. It feels so nice. You must be grinning like an idiot, you’re sure of that.

“Max? Explanation?” she says, sounding all demanding and queenly.

Oh, that’s right, there was something you promised to say, but before you can find your voice, you hum appreciatively. Her hand is really soft and warm. More time goes by.

“Maribeth is the most beautiful name in the Verse,” you suddenly profess with absolute certainty.

Does she get the nerdy reference? Nah, Victoria isn’t like that. Nerd matters are beneath her. They’re so beneath her that in her eyes they must be tantamount to the underworld.

“Max?” Her voice is low and uncertain this time, and you hate it. It doesn’t sound like Victoria at all.

“Yes?” you answer anyway.

“Are you okay?” She sounds worried. She sounds worried?

This isn't your Victoria. The Queen Bitch of Blackwell is cold and calculating. You let go of her hand and turn your back to her.

“I’m fine,” you say dryly.

She clears her throat, a pathetic little sound that is unfit for the queen.

“This isn't the first time I've come to check on you. You’ve been staring at the wall for hours. Without moving. Fuck, I’m not even sure you’ve been blinking.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, doing your damnedest to inject your tone with finality. You want it to be clear that you’re brooking no arguments. Who is this lowly bitch and what did she do with Victoria Chase anyway?

Unexpectedly, the fake Victoria comes to lie down right behind you without a word. She sidles toward you until her chest is flush against your back and puts her left arm around you, holding you tightly. Even after all that, she says nothing. To say that you’re surprised would be a gross understatement. You’re not even breathing properly.

After a minute, you finally, finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding. It comes out slow and shaky. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, and this is the warmest you’ve ever felt in your life. The heat and softness of Victoria’s body practically demand that you let go of yourself and melt into her. Perhaps this isn’t so bad after all, you reconsider. And for good measure, you grab her left hand with your right.

Maybe having fake Victoria here is good. Maybe she can be your Victoria now. You’re not hating this new attitude toward you at all. In fact, you kind of love it.

Without much conscious thought, your thumb goes on a quest of its own to find the pulse point hidden under that ridiculously expensive looking watch of hers. Once you find it, you pull her wrist to your lips and kiss it.

“Maribeth,” you say, a broken sob nearly bubbling up your throat.

“I’m right here,” she whispers in your ear.

Her voice, though low and soothing, has become imperious once more. This really is Victoria Chase, you now realize. How could you ever doubt her? There’s no fake and no real, there’s only one, and she’s here to impose her safety and comfort on you, whether you like it or not. Because that’s how Victoria Chase rolls. She acts, and the world accommodates her.

You feel the sting of tears, and you don’t know how to react. Because, yes, you’re immensely sad, but you’re also happy to have, at long last, found some release. When her hold tightens even more around your body, you stop caring and surrender to the sensations. The dam breaks and you feel the current carry you away. You cry like you’ve never cried before. Giant Alice has nothing on you.

At some point, you seamlessly transition into a dreamless sleep. There’s only oblivion after that.

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing you notice is that you still have a big spoon right there in bed with you. You can’t help the smile that you feel stretching your lips.

It still takes you a couple minutes to completely shake the sleepiness off. You rub your eyes, which barely does anything against the bleariness, and stretch as best as you can with Victoria’s limbs wrapped around you. Physically speaking, you’re still exhausted. Nights of good sleep like this one probably need to happen at least half a dozen times before you can fully recover. Mentally, though, you’ve progressed in leaps and bounds. You feel refreshed, safe, at ease, and all of that happened in a single session with a certain someone.

Poor Kate. She tried so hard to reach you, and your stupid, stubborn brain kept shutting her out. You honestly feel bad about that. How are you going to tell her that Victoria Chase came by your room, snapped her fingers once, and you fell in line just like everyone else? Hell, how are you going to face her after confessing to that? You grumble internally, and finally notice your bladder screaming for attention.

“Victoria?” you murmur, wanting her to wake up but fearing doing it. You need to answer the call of nature, with urgency, but Victoria was here all night with you. Who knows how well she slept? Or if she even slept at all.

That bladder of yours won’t be denied, though. In fact, it very much insists that you don’t.

“Victoria?” you call again, this time louder, and there’s movement behind you. She stirs, but doesn’t answer. You know she’s awake, though, because she clears her throat. Sleeping people don’t do that. Or sniffle.

“Maribeth,” she says.

You swallow, and the sound is loud even to you. She probably heard it too. Warmth suffuses you.

“Maribeth,” you repeat tentatively.

“Yes?” she replies without hesitation.

“I, uh,” you hesitate, feeling unreasonably shy. “I need to pee.”

Victoria sits up suddenly, letting go of you in the same motion. You turn around and find her running her fingers through her hair. Even though it’s mussed, the pixie nearly returns to its former glory after a couple passes. She does it one last time before she speaks.

“Now that you mention it, I need to go too.” Victoria yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. You find it kind of cute.

When she gets to her feet, you hurriedly drag yourself toward her and reach for her hand. As soon as you feel her long, elegant fingers within your grasp, your boldness evaporates. You gulp.

“Is it really okay to call you by your middle name?”

Victoria looks down at where her hand and yours are connected, then up at your eyes. She does the medusa thing again. She turns you to stone with those beautiful brown eyes of hers. It’s like there’s no one else in the world but you, and even though it feels nice to be stared at in such a way, it also makes you a little uncomfortable. Then, she blinds you with a smile you’ve never seen on her pink lips before, completely taking your fragile mind off that issue. You can tell immediately that it’s genuine. And it’s all yours.

“No power in the Verse could change my mind.”

You feel something akin to awe rise up your body. She got the nerdy reference! Your brain is doing a happy little dance to the rhythm of the song your heart is singing. This is more than you could have ever hoped to achieve with Victoria Chase. If the feeling in your cheeks is anything to go by, you’re grinning like you’ve lost your mind.

For the next few days, Victoria comes to your room every night. She’s there for you until the dark circles around your eyes are gone and you’ve stopped crying yourself to sleep. Most nights, she’s the big spoon, but sometimes, she lets you spoon her. All the way through your recovery, you have her to anchor you. She’s strong, she’s determined, she’s safety. And the cherry on top is that she doesn’t even ask for anything in return. Victoria is just there, being whatever you need her to be.

Then, your relationship shifts.

It starts normal enough. If you so much as mention in passing some location you want to visit to do whatever on a whim, Victoria sits you in the passenger side of that monstrosity she calls a car and takes you there. She buys you practically anything you want if she catches you looking at it for even a second too long. Things are pretty great. Admittedly, though, you’re somewhat blinded by her proximity and her catering. The thought that she may be pampering you to achieve exactly that does cross your mind a couple times. You dismiss it.

One night, after walking along the beach barefoot and taking pictures of everything, mostly Victoria, you both return to your room. She no longer sleeps over because you no longer need it, but tonight she comes in. Her eyes are dark as she silently closes the door behind her and turns the lock. A fluttering fills your stomach. You’re a little scared. There’s a hunger in her eyes that you’ve never seen before. Not even when she goes on and on about her ambitions.

That night, Victoria Chase gives you the second real kiss you’ve ever had. Although, using that word may not be entirely correct in the context of her. Rather, she claims your lips, and then plunders the depths of your mouth with her tongue. After you’re breathing so hard you think you’re about to faint, she takes you so thoroughly, so completely, that the next morning you need to scurry to the laundromat in secret.

Things escalate rather quickly. You are physically incapable of refusing her.

Every inch of your body is explored, outside and inside. Every hole. Every position. You never were very limber, but now you’re gradually becoming. Before Victoria Chase, you had never heard of squirting. It’s a source of endless embarrassment to you, but she loves it, and so your shame takes a backseat in your coupling.

The more you two share, the sharper the contrast between these moments and the rest becomes.

Finally, the situation reaches the tipping point and you’re forced to acknowledge the presence of the elephant in the room. When you’re together, Victoria becomes Maribeth. She’s yours, you’re hers, although in bed it’s more the latter than the former. This girl, who you used to think of as a monumental bitch, just gives and gives of herself, and then gives some more. Here’s the catch, though: Not in front of others.

Without much fanfare, you accept the fact that she has been intentionally blinding you to this with her pampering. In front of other people, Victoria Chase is still the Queen Bitch of Blackwell. No, she doesn’t abuse you directly anymore, as she used to, but she does treat you almost like a barely existing entity that just happened to phase into this dimension. However, if some Vortex Club asshole makes a joke at your expense, she does follow through. Not even Taylor or Courtney seem comfortable when it happens, but that changes nothing.

Mark Jefferson, the reason that brought you to Arcadia Bay in the first place, turned out to be a nice, warm serving of shit. Your best friend forever is dead. Kate Marsh went back to her parents while you were all tangled up in Victoria’s web. At the time, you took her departure in stride, but now, with hindsight, you realize that your neglect is partially to blame. That you didn’t even make the slightest attempt to keep her here was probably the last drop. Last, but certainly not least, your girlfriend treats you like a convenient prostitute. She gets all the use she needs out of you, pays you, admittedly extravagantly well, and then dumps you until the craving arises again. You’re done with this town.

One random morning, you decide to just up and leave. While Victoria is busy with classes, you gather your belongings into a couple bags, only what was always yours to begin with. Every single thing she gifted you, to buy your complacency, gets left behind in your room. You’re ready to return to the last place left for you. Seattle.

“Max?” you hear that familiar voice call from somewhere behind you.

There’s a note of fear in her voice, and the need to comfort her is like a siren’s song to you. The handle of your door is the only thing you can grab that is solid, and so, you hold onto it for dear life. It takes all your willpower to not look at her, but you know that if you see her eyes, you will willingly submit to whatever she says.

“I’m going back to Seattle,” you announce, doing your utmost to keep your voice neutral and detached.

There’s a beat.

“Why?”

A flame of anger ignites in you, but somehow, you manage to keep its heat out of your voice.

“You know why, Victoria,” you say with finality, emphasizing her name. “And if you don’t, just do some introspection. Hell, ask Taylor and Courtney, even they know.”

With that, you turn around and start walking, avoiding her eyes until she’s out of sight. You stop. There’s a nagging on the back of your head. Like the constant buzz of a beehive. You can’t believe your own stupid self. The need to put her feelings at ease is holding you back. A sigh escapes you through teeth you’re clenching so hard it almost hurts. If you’re doing this, you’re doing it like she would, like she taught you. With poison.

“You took everything I had to give. There’s nothing left. I am nothing now. So, don’t worry, you’re losing nothing.”

It’s the last time you see Victoria Chase.

Two months later, you have settled back in Seattle. Your parents are glad to have you back in the house and don’t mind that you’re taking a sabbatical from school. Then again, you’re still active with your camera and you landed a part time job as assistant in an art gallery, so, it’s not like you’re just lying around the house wasting away.

Everything you learned from that nightmarish week in Arcadia Bay, and from being Victoria Chase’s squeeze, has served you very well in the field of social interaction. You’re comfortable around people, and people are comfortable around you, if you can judge that by the smiles they show you. Who knows, hypocrites are everywhere, but what matters is that you feel more confident than you ever did before Blackwell Academy.

You’re getting back into videogames. They’re certainly less prone to betray you than people. Yeah, maybe you’ve become a bit of a cynic too, but there’s no way you were going to make it through life with your optimism intact. That’s okay. Nowadays you’re even smiling for you, Max Caulfield, not because of someone else. You’re finally starting to grow into your own person.

There’s a little snag in all this, though. You do miss Victoria. Whatever her feelings for you were, you did love her. You loved Chloe this way too, but that was more an infatuation because you never dove into it. On the other hand, you fell for Victoria, and as time went by, you learned to keep that feeling burning despite her imperfections. She’s the closest you ever had to a true romantic relationship. It’s kind of pathetic, considering what she did, but still.

Anyway, as the song in Wolfenstein goes: You tried, she tried too, but sometimes all your dreams just don’t come true.

“Max?” your boss calls.

Making sure that you paused the game, you quickly take out the earbuds and put down the Nintendo DS. This job you have at the gallery is pretty nice for many reasons. Experience being one of them. One of the other big ones is that your boss is an awesome lady that lets you play videogames in one of the storage rooms at the back when you’re not needed.

“Yeah?” you reply.

She fully comes into the room then. “You’re familiar with the gallery, right?”

The question catches you by surprise and you hesitate. “Yeah, why?”

“We have a big group today, all the way from Oregon, and Patricia just called in sick.”

Oregon? A few faces and memories flash briefly behind your eyes. It seems like an odd coincidence to you, but then again this is Oregon, it’s not that far. You promptly dismiss the thought and try to pick up the trail of the conversation.

“So?” your boss asks, looking kind of jittery.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” you reassure her, because how can you leave her high and dry after she has nothing but kind to you.

“Good, because the bus is already parking outside,” she says, walking out of the door. She peeks her head back in a second later and adds, “I’ll go tell them they can come in now, do something about your hair.”

Oh yeah. The usual shaggy Max style just won’t do for this. Fortunately, as of late you’ve taken to carrying a hair tie in your messenger bag. This kind of job does require that you sometimes look presentable, even as a background worker. You pull back as much of your hair as you can into a ponytail, much like the one you used to wear way back when, and then leave the storage room.

When you reach the reception, you are greeted by one of those huge charter buses. It looks luxurious, to say the least, and that gives your nerves a little jolt. Damn it, some hotshot school, and here you are wearing a plain tee and jeans. You give yourself a once-over and try to at least smooth some of the more prominent wrinkles in your clothes. Once that exercise in futility is over, you stand straighter, raise your chin, and stretch your lips in your most winning smile.

All for nothing. Recognition sets in, and your smile vanishes along with your guts. For a second, it feels like you’re falling down strapped to one of those drop tower rides. Your knees go weak on you, the fucking traitors, but you manage to stay upright. These are all Blackwell Academy alumni. Some of them you never actually met but still recognize because you were always watching everyone around you, whether it was from your window or the lens of your camera. Some others you know very well.

Yep, there come Brooke and Warren. They’re holding hands, and you can’t help feeling glad that they finally worked it out. That feeling of happiness does nothing to fend off the fear rising up your spine, though.

There’s a flash of color, and indeed, you get a glimpse of Alyssa. Right after her enter Stella, Evan and Hayden. You hear laughter, and as if heralded by it, Dana and Juliet appear, whispering conspiratorially to each other. Even some of the jocks are here.

Behind the larger group of students, you see Taylor and Courtney emerging from the bus. You’re still waiting for a hole to appear in the ground to swallow you whole, but it just doesn’t happen. By now, you’re getting pretty desperate, but the son of a bitch just isn’t answering your prayers.

However, you do receive a glimmer of hope when some teachers get off the bus. Even Samuel is here, walking together with Ms. Grant and Principal Wells. There’s no way Victoria is trailing after them. Not the queen. Hell, she would’ve come in first or none at all. Feeling reassured that it’s the latter, you breathe a sigh of relief.

Too soon. You want to drop dead right where you stand, because there she is. Victoria Chase. In all her evil, selfish, elegant, beautiful glory.

As if gliding through the air, she strides past everyone and commandeers the group. Truly, she is mighty.

“Is everyone here?” she shouts, and without waiting for a reply, she walks into the reception. “Follow me.”

When she sees you, she smiles your smile. Your heart stops. The world falls away around you. She’s staring at you with those eyes that take you away and hold you in place at the same time. There’s fire in them, and you’re suddenly afraid. It’s not the usual blazing you grew accustomed to when you two talked about photography or when she wanted to fuck you into oblivion. This is different. It may very well spell doom for you.

“Everyone!” she calls, looking back to the group over her shoulder. “Say hello to our beautiful host, Maxine Caulfield.”

Victoria flourishes with her hand toward you, effectively putting you in the spotlight. You can already feel the warmth rushing up to your face. Some of them say something to you, who knows what, but it can’t be bad since they’re smiling in a friendly way, right? Some of them look at you strangely. The jocks, some people you recognize as members of the Vortex Club. Makes sense, since the queen just paid you a compliment. You imagine they must have been blindsided by that, badly. Just as you were.

A hand materializes on your cheek. It’s soft and its touch is tender, but you know the power it holds. Before you can have the good sense to move away and question its intentions, your lips are claimed.

You stare at Victoria, your stomach filling with butterflies to the brim. Then, you stare at the rest of the students. You go back and forth a couple more times, certain that your eyes are as wide as everyone else’s. But this is Victoria Chase, and your lack of involvement is quickly noted and duly taken care of.

Her arm surrounds your waist and she pulls you flush against her body, using the surprised little sound you make to deepen the kiss. A sigh escapes through your nose and your eyes betray you, closing of their own volition. Her lips are exquisite. She smells like angels ought to smell. You are physically incapable of refusing her.

When you’re finally allowed to catch your breath, you notice through the haze that everyone is staring at the two of you like an alien ship just landed in the middle of the gallery. It’s then that it dawns on you. This is a PDA. The one thing Victoria never gave you back in Blackwell. A public, and in this case, very public, display of affection. Now everyone knows.

This is her apology, you realize. Public recognition. In typical Victoria Chase fashion, she’s not even going to bother asking for absolution. She’s so sure of herself, so certain that she understands the situation, that she’s merely here to take back what is hers. In her mind, she has mended her mistake, and now she has been forgiven. Period, full stop. There’s no process to it. She’s the queen after all.

And you’re fine with it. Because she’s your queen.

Feeling bolder than you ever have, you grab the lapels of her blouse with both hands and pull her roughly down towards you. You crush her lips with yours, laying your claim on the most beautiful girl you’ve ever met. Now everyone knows it’s mutual. And when you feel her smile against your mouth, you know she knows it too.

**FIN**

 

Wait a minute…

“Maribeth? Did you rent a whole bus and booked the gallery just for this? Oh my god, did you have anything to do with Patricia’s absence?”

She fakes a tiny gasp, her catlike eyes widening comically and her hand concealing those pink lips of hers as they form a little O.

“Well, I never!”

Yep, she totally paid her off to call in sick.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, you could say that this Victoria Chase is probably way richer than depicted in the game because that is indeed a Bugatti Veyron Grand Sport she’s driving around.  
> Some of you might have felt that Max sucks up too much to Victoria. I want to address that. This story is meant as an ode to the queen. Rest assured, though. Even if I failed as a writer and the idea didn’t reach you through the storytelling, know that Victoria is willing to do anything for Max. With the one exception, but that changes within those two months.
> 
> Soundtrack.  
> (Songs are in no specific order and did not serve as inspiration for this story. Just what I happened to be listening to while writing.)  
> Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart, Marc Almond and Gene Pitney.  
> Bubblegum Bitch, Marina and The Diamonds.  
> Oh No! Marina and The Diamonds.  
> Counting Stars, One Republic.  
> Wake Me Up, Avicii.  
> Cheap Thrills, Sia.  
> Unstoppable, Sia.  
> Shots, Imagine Dragons.  
> I Bet My Life, Imagine Dragons.


End file.
